


What You Waiting For?

by lastwingedthing



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray likes to dress up. Brad likes a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Waiting For?

**Author's Note:**

> Crossdressing porn! The prompt was _manhandle_.

There’s another party at Kocher’s house, the third night of their leave. Loud music and three hundred dollars worth of hard liquor, half a dozen guys dressed up in stupid costumes. The usual bullshit.

Person shows up late in heels and lipstick, and a red dress.

Viewed from up close the illusion is imperfect. Ray wobbles his way across even a flat wood floor; the lipstick is uneven, and his biceps bulge and strain around the sleeves of the dress. Brad was still fooled for a moment, at first, watching him from across the room. Wondered who that woman was, who had brought her.

And then he’d heard the roar of laughter spreading across the room, and he’d known.

Desire started then, at that exact moment. Not before.

Brad stays away from Ray, as much as he can. It isn’t hard. Brad hates being near the centre of things, the stupid drunk talk and the laughter. He’s planned out the night, three hours here and then he’ll leave before midnight. And before then he’ll stick to the men around the edges, the sober ones, the kind he can tolerate.

Tonight the centre belongs to Ray.

Manimal actually hit on him, earlier. Brad can’t help overhearing the story. Marines will try and fuck _anything_ , he hears repeated over and over, by men who in the next breath laugh with glee at the look of horror on Manimal’s face when he realised the truth. Good fucking joke, they say. Funniest thing Person’s done.

No-one can stop talking about it. Everywhere Brad goes, everyone he sees, is talking about Ray.

“Your boy’s got some fucking balls,” Mike says to him laughing. Accent and alcohol blurring his words.

Brad makes a face, drinks. Words come out of his mouth on autopilot, but they feel distant and thin. “ _My_ boy? When will you people stop associating me with that little degenerate?”

No-one answers him. Across the room, Ray’s kicked off his heels. He’s dancing barefoot, drunk and sloppy and smiling, in the middle of the room.

The dress is clinging, soft and silky, to his thighs.

Brad heads to the kitchen for another drink.

It’s two hours later when Ray finally corners him, out in the back hallway where the lights are low and dark. Brad wasn’t expecting it, thought he was safe; but then he steps out of the bathroom and Ray’s there, waiting for him. Half-smiling, eyes dark and mocking. The exaggerated make-up is has almost made him into a stranger, but Brad still recognises the look on his face.

“Hey homes, the fuck have you been all night? Check this _out_ , I’m rocking this shit. I am, like, the fucking _king_ of drag tonight.” He purses his lips at Brad, making an exaggerated kissy face, his eyes flicking up to Brad’s.

Brad’s silent. Doesn’t move, doesn’t react.

“Maybe not the king. Technically speaking I guess I’m the queen, right?” He pauses, smiles wider; but there’s something curious and questioning in the back of his gaze. “You wanna dance, Brad?”

The snarl is an automatic reaction. So is grabbing Ray by the shoulders and hauling him into the nearest room.

The door locks behind them both with a firm click.

“The fuck is this bullshit, Person. You actually think this is funny?”

Brad’s asking coldly, precisely. He’s got Ray pinned against the wall, wrists trapped in his hand. If Ray is uncomfortable, he isn’t showing it. He’s still smiling up at Brad.

It’s too hot in here, close and stale. There’s not enough space. Brad feels sluggish and slow, sweat prickling across his back and chest.

He can feel the silky material of Ray’s dress against his skin.

There is no fear. There can’t be fear. It’s – it’s _Ray_. Brad can make him be quiet, make this go away. Somehow Brad will find a way.

But Ray cocks his head, keeps staring. Just for a moment, the smile disappears. He looks steady and serious, controlled.

“No, I don’t think it’s funny, Brad. I think dressing up like this is fun, and it sure as hell is _hot_ , but funny isn’t the fucking word I’d use. What do you think? What would you call it, Brad?”

Brad freezes. Meets Ray’s eyes, for the first time this night. He can’t speak.

“You know what I do think is kind of funny?” Ray smiles again, and for a moment Brad thinks, unbelievably, that he’s safe. That Ray is letting this go, letting him off this easily. “Ironic, kind of sad, but also funny? This place is full of homophobic small-minded fuckwits, and you would not fucking believe how many of them have wanted to fuck me tonight. Wanted to _be_ me tonight. I’ve lost track of how many fucking hypocrites have groped me, homes, dirty fucking hands up my skirt.”

Ray’s voice has lowered, husky and intimate, and Brad can’t breathe.

“Hey, Brad.” Brad’s grip must have loosened; he doesn’t know how it happened. Ray’s hands are free, sliding down Brad’s arms towards his wrists, tugging his hands lower. And Ray is smiling again. His eyes are so dark, fixed on Brad like he can see _everything_. Like he _knows_.

“Brad? You got me. So fucking put your hands up my skirt.”

Brad can’t breathe. But his hands move anyway. As blood rushes in his ears, as his cock stiffens, they slide slow and certain up Ray’s warm thighs.

Ray’s shaved his legs for tonight. His skin feels soft, so smooth, with the occasional faint prickle from hairs he’d missed. Brad slides his hands up higher, slowly, dazed. It doesn’t feel real, it doesn’t feel like it could possibly be _him_ moving like this.

But it’s real. It’s happening.

Ray sighs, a soft little noise halfway to a groan, as Brad moves his hands higher. The slick fabric of the dress is starting to bunch around his hands, and Brad swallows hard at the sight. The sensation, the motion of it is almost too much to bear.

Ray is watching too, staring down at the movement under his dress, inching higher with every breath.

He moans again, and then he looks up at Brad. “Fucking do it. Please.”

Ray’s wearing panties, and Brad can feel their lace scratching against his fingertips. He bites his lip hard, and slips his hand underneath. And wraps his fingers around the hot stiff length of Ray’s cock.

He tugs once, and Ray collapses forward, moaning in earnest now. And Brad can’t help himself; he leans in and kisses Ray on the mouth. Ray kisses him back. It’s rough and needy, demanding, so good Brad’s head spins. At the back of his mind is the thought of Ray’s lipstick, brilliant red, smearing all over both of their mouths. What they must look like…

Ray’s moaning into his mouth, jerking into Brad’s hand. And then he pulls away, and they both look down again. Staring at the rhythmic motion of Brad’s hand, the outline of Ray’s cock.

There’s a spreading wet spot on the front of Ray’s dress.

Brad sucks in another harsh breath, practically gasping. He hasn’t even touched himself yet, and he’s hard enough to hurt already. And Ray sounds _wrecked_.

Ray makes a helpless hurt sound as Brad twists his wrist, and that decides him. He drops to his knees.

Ray stutters out a _fuck_ above him, but Brad’s already leaning in, ducking his head under the dress. He’s lost, stuck on the thought of what they must _look_ like. Ray in a dress bunched up around his thighs, mussed and wanton, and Brad down on his knees with a cock in his mouth.

The taste, the shape, the steady rhythm… It’s so fucking good. Brad closes his eyes, realises that he’s moaning too. He ought to be worrying about whether anyone could hear them, but all he can think about is cock; his own, and the one pushing between his lips.

Ray starts to thrust harder now, close to the edge already, and Brad sucks him harder. And then he feels fabric brushing past his face.

“Brad,” Ray chokes out, and Brad opens his eyes.

Ray’s hauled the dress up around his waist. He’s staring down at Brad, at Brad’s mouth around his cock, the cock poking out past his dress. His mouth is falling open. And then their eyes meet, and Ray comes.

Brad swallows automatically, shaking with need. Already he’s got his free hand working at the button of his jeans, getting them open, getting his cock out. Three hard pulls and he’s done as well, shooting across the floor.

He closes his eyes, resting his head against Ray’s thigh. The world’s suddenly gone quiet.

Ray looks down at him and smiles.

“Gonna take me home now, Brad?” His voice is lighter now, easier; there’s a hint of a question in his tone.

Brad breathes for a moment. An ache is suddenly gone from his chest, one that he’s had for so long he’d almost forgotten it was there.

Ray hasn’t pushed him away. Ray likes it just as much as he does.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take you home, Ray. Take you home and fuck you over the kitchen table,” he says casually, instead of anything else he could have said. “Don’t think you’re getting off this easily.”

Ray scoffs. “You’d fucking better,” Ray says, reaching out a hand to tug him upwards.

Brad rolls his eyes.

And then Ray smiles. “Oh, and Brad? Next time you get to wear the dress.”


End file.
